


la dolce vita

by wambsgangs



Series: the extended 1970s succession universe [3]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wambsgangs/pseuds/wambsgangs
Summary: Her father was footing the bill, and her mother was nagging her about having the ceremony at Eastnor Castle, so if Tom wanted his sweet little fairytale wedding that could double as a ‘fuck you’ to both of her parents, then fine. He could have it.Wish fucking granted, motherfucker.(vignettes from tom and shiv's december 1973 lake como wedding)
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Series: the extended 1970s succession universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147634
Comments: 37
Kudos: 21





	1. City Hall Park

**Author's Note:**

> tom can have a little wedding on lake como, as a treat!

_i._

If it had been up to her, the wedding would have taken place at City Hall on a Monday afternoon. Tom might have slipped out of work early for an extended lunch hour, and Shiv would have explained to Gil that she had something important to handle before rushing downtown in a neatly-pressed white pantsuit. The ceremony would have been short and concise, officiated by a clerk. They might have asked Kendall to be a witness, and he would have signed their marriage certificate in a hasty scrawl before ducking out to take a _can’t-miss_ meeting. She would have pressed a feather-light kiss to her new husband’s lips and slid a simple gold band onto his finger, and promised to celebrate properly later that evening. Nothing too extravagant, maybe a bottle of champagne and a trim bouquet of roses as a dinner table centerpiece. It might have been quietly romantic in a way that didn’t require rhapsodic vows or cinematic kisses at the altar. No frills, no fuss. 

But she had been overruled. 

When Shiv broached the idea to Tom, his face had gone very taut. It looked almost waxen in the gray morning light streaming through the picture window in the kitchen.

 _“Shiiiiv,”_ he had said, his voice sliding into that awful, desperate register that always made her sigh. Tom fumbled for her hand over the breakfast table. “Honey. You can’t be serious. That’s not very _wedding-y,_ is it?”

“Sure, it is,” Shiv said, delicately tugging her hand out of his tight grip. “It’s still a wedding. Just, you know, stripped down to the essentials.”

Tom frowned. “A courthouse wedding, though? Shiv, they make you take a number and wait for a clerk. It’s like getting married at the deli counter at the grocery store.” 

“It was just an idea,” she shrugged. “I mean, I don’t care. We can do it at City Hall, or in England, or—or where the fuck ever. As long as there’s an officiant and a pen to sign the papers, it literally doesn’t fucking matter where we get married.” 

His mouth tightened into a pout that he made no effort to hide from her. “Right." 

“I just thought it might be kind of modern,” Shiv said. “Practical.” 

That had been precisely the wrong word to use. 

“Oh,” Tom said, with his eyebrows pushing together, carving furrows into his forehead. “Practical, sure. No, that… that’s sensible.” 

He’d fallen quiet for the rest of the week, silently moping around the apartment until Shiv finally forced him to admit that he had wanted a _grand_ wedding. On Lake Como. In December.

She wasn’t sure that she did an incredible job of masking her distaste—not that there was anything _wrong_ with an Italian wedding, per se, but it felt a little ostentatious. And an off-season destination wedding? Honestly, that sort of thing just wasn’t _done_ in her world _._ She could already hear Marcia tutting over the invitation. It was all terribly gauche. And naturally, Tom wouldn’t understand that.

But her father was footing the bill, and her mother was nagging her about having the ceremony at Eastnor Castle, so if Tom wanted his sweet little fairytale wedding that could double as a ‘fuck you’ to both of her parents, then fine. He could have it. 

Wish fucking granted, motherfucker. 


	2. #75 St. Marks Place

_ ii. _

“Can you fucking  _ believe _ she asked me for a courthouse wedding? I mean, really.” Tom took a rough swig of scotch and winced at the burn that trailed down his throat. “A fucking courthouse wedding, Greg.” 

He knew that he was being petulant. Shiv was right, anyway—it didn’t matter where they got married. If it came down to it, he would marry her in a fallout shelter. In a befouled alleyway on St. Marks Place behind a head shop. Christ, he’d exchange vows with her in this dive bar where the ATN wage slaves congregated for their after-work drinks. (Not that he was ever invited, unless he glommed onto Greg at a quarter to five on a Friday afternoon.) It didn’t matter  _ where _ the wedding was as long as there  _ was _ a wedding. 

But, you know. Excuse him for caring a little.

“I don’t know. I think it’s kind of nice, actually,” Greg said, popping another handful of spiced nuts into his mouth. “Weddings are kind of, like, an outdated tradition. It’s super embedded in the patriarchy. And—and capitalism.” 

Tom glared at his assistant over the rim of his lowball glass. “You would say that, you fucking commie.”

“I’m just trying to give you some perspective, dude.” 

“Perspective, right. Sure.” With a scoff, Tom slid the bowl of spiced nuts away from Greg, who was shoveling them into his mouth at an alarming rate. “Would you stop eating these? You’re gonna spoil your appetite.” 

“No, I’m not,” Greg insisted, and he reached one of his freakishly long arms around Tom to slide the bowl right back across the bar towards him. He gave Tom a pointed look. “You’re not listening to me, though.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to listen to you,” he said. “You’re not my shrink. Where’s your fucking loyalty? Huh, Greg?” 

“It could be romantic, is all I’m saying!” Greg argued, waving his hands around. “Like, you know, it’d be… sort of intimate?”

Right. Because when Tom proposed to Shiv, he’d been imagining a drab ceremony in a municipal building with the faint scent of Xerox cleaning fluid hanging in the air. He narrowed his eyes at Greg. 

“Okay, so. City Hall’s out, I guess,” Greg said, chewing thoughtfully. “Where were you thinking of getting married, incidentally?” 

Tom took a slow sip of his drink. “If it was up to my parents, we’d do it in Minnesota,” he said. “The whole extended family’s out there, you know? Could be kind of a nice way to blend the families. But Shiv would never allow it.” He could just imagine pitching  _ that _ idea as a counter-offer.  _ How about instead of getting married in front of the city clerk, we have the wedding in St. Paul? At the Lutheran Church?  _

“But, like. If it was up to  _ you.”  _

Greg looked so earnest, watching Tom with his chin propped on his hand, that Tom bit back the urge to laugh in his face. It was a ridiculous question. If it was up to  _ him?  _ He didn’t call the shots in his relationship. He barely called the shots at work. 

“Well, ah. I guess—I always thought it might be nice to get married on Lake Como,” he said. “In Italy,” he added, at Greg’s blank look. 

“Oh,” Greg said, and he looked suitably impressed. “I mean, I’ve never been. But it sounds nice.” 

Tom snorted. “Yeah, Greg. It’s nice.” 

He didn’t want to admit that he had never been there, either. Or anywhere, really. He had only applied for a passport after he started seeing Shiv because there had never been a reason for him to travel. And maybe, selfishly, he wanted to live out this jetsetting fantasy that he’d been harboring for years. Maybe he wanted to get married in Italy just because he  _ could.  _ Maybe he wanted something tangible to prove that he belonged. 

“But it’s not  _ practical,”  _ he said, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Because that’s apparently a prerequisite for a wedding in this family.  _ Practicality.”  _

Greg raised an eyebrow, brought another handful of spiced nuts to his mouth. 

“Never mind the fact that Logan has properties all over the fucking globe,” Tom went on, picking up steam. He took another swig of his drink. “Probably has a place on Lake Como. Probably  _ owns _ the whole fucking lake, for all I know.” 

“Ha, maybe.” 

“Am I being unreasonable?” Tom looked to Greg for reassurance. “For wanting a  _ nice _ wedding?”

Greg frowned. “Not at all.”

“Maybe I’m old-fashioned.” 

“Well, just a little bit,” Greg said, and Tom cut a sharp glare at him. “But, you know, even if traditional weddings are, like, upholding the patriarchy, you should still have one. If it’s important to you.” He shrugged and scooped up the last handful of nuts out of the bowl. “That’s what I’d want for you. If I was Shiv.” 

Tom drained the rest of his drink in one gulp. “Remind me not to ask you to do a toast at the reception,” he said, ignoring the warm flush creeping up the back of his neck. 

* * *

“What about the fifteenth?” Tom asked.

Shiv glanced up, distracted from the stack of campaign literature on her lap that she was supposed to be proofreading. Blinked at the wall calendar and day planner spread out across the coffee table. She hadn’t noticed Tom slipping out from under her draped legs, settling on the edge of the couch to pore over calendar pages.  _ Saturday, December 15th  _ was circled in red ink.

“Sorry,” Shiv said, squinting at the open calendar page. “The fifteenth?”

“The fifteenth,” he repeated slowly, meaningfully. When Shiv just blinked at him, Tom raised an eyebrow. “We have to set a wedding date sometime, Shiv.” 

She sighed. “I know. But a  _ December  _ wedding?”

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Tom, come on. You don’t go to the Mediterranean in December,” Shiv said, setting her papers aside. “Or at least, people like us don’t.” 

“You mean people like your dad,” Tom supplied. She bit her lip.

“It’s just not done,” she said, hating herself a little bit for saying it. “Out of the question to go in the summer, with the heat and all the fucking tourists. Too much rain in the spring, too bitter in the winter. You go in autumn.” 

Tom shrugged. “Okay. So, let’s just get married in October, then.”

“October… of next year?” 

“No,  _ this _ year,” he said, eyebrows drawn low. “I mean, if you wanted to wait that long, I guess. But it seems silly to wait, doesn’t it?”

It was strange to think that they could have such radically different perceptions of time, that the handful of months between a botched proposal in the New York Presbyterian intensive care unit and a wedding ceremony in Cernobbio could feel like an eternity to Tom. Shiv could almost feel the shotgun barrel pressed between her shoulder blades, nudging her down the aisle. Too much, too fast. She couldn’t stop it.

For all of the freedom that being a Roy afforded her, there were certain things that Shiv had to do, as the only daughter. She could have her career, sure. She could crop her hair short or dress in wide-leg slacks, piss her inheritance away on holiday to Amsterdam or Nice well before her father was six feet underground. She could be every bit the modern feminist that she claimed to be in  _ Ms. Magazine,  _ but that didn’t change the fact that she had to settle down. 

In her twenties, that seemed a distant point on the horizon. But then along came Tom, and Shiv saw in him an insurance policy, a broad-shouldered, all-American starter husband. She could see herself marrying him when she felt good and ready. When she had had her fill of freedom. 

Time was running out. 

She felt like she was drowning. 

“You know, on second thought,” Shiv said, chewing on the end of her uncapped pen, “I could, um. I could see having a December wedding. If that’s what you want.”

She watched his face turn open, hopeful. “Really?” 

“Sure, why not?” Shiv said, lifting a shoulder. “I mean, Dad’s gonna go ballistic. It’ll fuck up his plans for Christmas. Perfect, really.” 

Tom pressed a kiss to Shiv’s cheek with a grin. His eyes were clouded with distant thoughts when he pulled back. “Oh, fuck. I have to call Charlotte,” he said, sweeping his calendars off the coffee table into a messy heap. “And Greg.  _ Fuck,  _ we don’t have much time.” 

“Greg?” Shiv frowned. “Cousin Greg?” 

“Well, yeah,” Tom said, pausing in the doorway. “Shiv, I’m a time-pressed executive. Someone has to stay on top of our insipid wedding planner, and it’s sure as hell not gonna be me.”


	3. Villa d’Este, Via Regina, 40

_iii._

It had seemed like a halfway decent idea at the time, inviting her candidate and her campaign strategist to her wedding, even if it didn’t quite align with Gil’s political ethos. He looked distinctly out of place in this frescoed hall, uncomfortable in a tailored suit and surrounded by the very elite class that he was hellbent on tearing down. Shiv had tried to tell him that this was the sort of thing that he’d have to do once he made it to the Oval—kiss the ring, make nice with lobbyists and the Manhattan elite—but he insisted that he would be the people’s president, the anti-Nixon, black tie affairs be damned. 

And honestly, Shiv _got_ it. This was a fucking nightmare. She didn’t know who to blame for this excessive grandeur—Charlotte or Tom. Or maybe this was all Greg, who might have stupidly assumed that bigger was better, and with Tom delegating the bulk of the negotiations with their wedding planner to him, it almost made sense that this felt like a wedding for Grace Kelly more than for _her._

She hated this. Hated the oppressive opulence of it all, the marble floors and the flowing champagne and the swell of violins in some distant corner of the room. She hated the performance required of her: bright, effusive, all gracious smiles and forbearance as perfect strangers barraged her with questions about her future plans. _Their_ future plans, whether they would stay in the city or move out to the suburbs, when (not if) they would start having children. 

The future didn’t belong to her anymore. She wondered if it ever had, or if it was some grand illusion that she had conjured up some years ago. It didn’t seem to matter anymore that she was a Roy. It seemed a foregone conclusion that she would be a Wambsgans, in just a matter of hours. 

The thought shouldn’t have filled her with dread, but it did. 

If nothing else, Shiv was good at going through the motions. Plastering on a cellophane smile, feigning interest in polite conversation. See, she _was_ a Roy. Heiress to an empire of bullshit. 

And maybe it was terrible of her to treat her own rehearsal dinner like a hackneyed piece of dinner theatre, to phone in her performance. Maybe it was awful that she let Roman and her mother crack wise about her _plausible_ fiancé. Maybe she didn’t care if anyone saw her lock eyes with Nate from across the room and drag him into a coat closet just off the main salon. 

Maybe the future that she wanted for herself was slipping through her fingers, and she wanted to hold on for just a moment longer before she inevitably had to let go.


	4. Chiesa prepositurale San Michele Arcangelo

_iv.  
_

Gray morning light had barely dawned on the horizon when Tom slid out of bed and pulled on clothes in a haphazard fashion. A thick woolen pullover, a pair of dark jeans, a faded pair of tennis sneakers.

Shiv stirred at the sound of him padding to the door. “Tom,” she said in a thick voice, lifting her head off the pillow. “Come back to bed, it’s early.” 

“I just need some air. Clear my head a bit.” 

Tom shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Shiv looked at him for a long moment. 

“Don’t be long,” she told him, and pulled the comforter over her head.

With a sigh, Tom stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. He was itching to run as far as his legs would take him, but he thought he might find himself lost on some remote path on an Italian hillside. So he set off for the gardens instead. 

If it were June instead of December, he might have wandered the grounds for hours, admiring the flowers in bloom, the gurgling fountains. It was still impressive. The hedges were well-trimmed, the lake view serene in spite of the fog. But, well. There wasn’t much to see. So he sank down onto a wrought-iron bench and let his mind drift for a while.

He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps on the path. 

_Of course._ Tom should have known. 

Greg jogged towards him in his wrinkled navy suit and a pair of stiff dress shoes that still needed to be broken in. His wool coat was unbuttoned; his scarf flapped wildly in the wind. He was panting a little as he slowed to a stop in front of Tom. 

“Morning, Greg,” Tom said, squinting up at him. “You’re up early.” He frowned at the state of Greg’s suit from last night. From the looks of it, it was evident that Greg had scooped it up off the floor in someone’s hotel room and pulled it back on for this errand. “Or late, I gather.” 

Greg flushed, running a hand through his unkempt shag. “Oh, um. I couldn’t sleep.” 

“Mm.” Tom pursed his lips. “I bet.” 

“Look, uh.” Greg hesitated, then seemed to make a decision and sat on the bench beside Tom. “I didn’t know, like, exactly how to tell you this? And I’ve been up all night, trying to think exactly how to—broach.”

Tom stared at the terraced wall opposite the bench. _Jesus fucking Christ._ He had a sinking feeling in his gut, an awful sort of dread that made him break out in a cold sweat, even with the sharp bite in the air. 

“So I just want to say that, um.” Greg swallowed hard enough for Tom to hear it. “I think that, like. Shiv is, um—”

“No.” Tom cut a sideways glance at Greg, shook his head. “No. You’re wrong.” 

“—I think she’s having an affair.” 

“You’re wrong,” Tom repeated, firmer this time. 

Greg blinked at him. Those stupid, round cow eyes. “No, I mean—”

“Shut up, Greg.”

He dug his nails into the palms of his hands, tried to focus on the burst of pain instead of the angry tears brimming in his eyes. He wasn’t going to fucking _cry_ in front of Cousin Greg on his wedding day. This wasn’t happening. 

And Greg was wrong. Had to be. Part of him wanted Greg to make his case and lay the evidence out before him like some low-rent private eye, but it didn’t matter. Shiv was _his_ fiancée, and was about to be _his_ wife.

Nothing else mattered.

“I’m trying to help you, man. Don’t you want to know if she’s cheating on you?” 

“No, Greg. I don’t.” 

“Dude,” Greg said, low and urgent. He leaned into Tom, pressing his full weight into Tom’s shoulder, his thigh. “You—you didn’t see what I saw, okay? There are _vibes.”_

Tom turned to stare. “That’s your proof?” he asked, incredulous. _“Vibes?_ Good fucking God, Greg.” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“That’s not fucking incontrovertible _proof,”_ Tom told him. “You think that means anything? I’ll tell you what it means, Greg. It means that—that they’re two attractive people who happen to work together. That’s all.” He sniffed. “I mean, you could say that about anyone. You could say that about us.” 

Greg looked at him, slack-jawed. “Uh.” 

“It’s ridiculous,” Tom snapped, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m just illustrating a point. Jesus.” 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Tom glared at the ground, clenching his jaw so he didn’t say something stupid that he couldn’t take back. 

It was all perfectly aboveboard, he was sure of it. A few lingering looks, a touch on the arm here and there. Harmless flirting. It didn’t  _ mean  _ anything. You could be attracted to someone you worked with and never act on it. It was like—an aesthetic appreciation. It didn’t constitute an affair. It didn’t mean that you couldn’t still love someone else. 

Right? 

He felt Greg shudder beside him, drawing in a sharp breath. “Tom.” 

“Just—just don’t,” Tom said in a tight voice, and shrank away from Greg. He was suddenly terrified of what might happen if he sat here for a moment longer. If Greg set a comforting hand on his knee. If he let himself look into Greg’s soft, warm eyes. “Please.” 

He was marrying Shiv, come hell or high water. 

“Go,” he told Greg, without looking up. “Get the fuck out of here.” 

“Tom, I—”

“I said  _ go,”  _ Tom growled. 

It was quiet. Tom held his breath.

He waited until he felt the bench shift as Greg stood. Listened to the sound of his heavy footsteps fade away before he let himself breathe again. He pressed the heel of his palms into his eye sockets, hard enough to see phantom streaks of light behind his eyes. 

Even if Greg was right, it didn’t matter. 

He didn’t care. 

* * *

  
Logan was quiet for most of the ride to the church. The roads were narrow, barely wide enough for the trim 1950 Fiat 500 carrying them up the side of Monte Bisbino to squeeze through, and the asphalt was rough. He hissed through his teeth at each hairpin turn, a sharp whistle that made the hair on the back of Shiv’s neck stand on end each time. She didn’t envy their driver.

“You okay, Dad?”

He turned away from the window, which had fogged over from his breath against the glass. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Hm? Oh, sure. Sure, Pinky.” 

Shiv smiled. Tried to, anyway. 

“And you?” Logan asked with an arched brow. “Everything’s all right with you, Siobhan?”

Of course, it wasn’t fucking all right. She was trapped in the backseat of a decades-old Italian deathtrap, careening up the side of a mountain towards a quaint Catholic parish to say her vows, and promise an eternity to a man she wasn’t entirely sure she loved. Her eyes stung with tears to even consider the idea that she wasn’t in love with Tom. Because she did _love_ him, for all the ways that he loved her, and doted on her, and patched her up when she sprung a leak and couldn’t carry her own load. But love was like thirty different things, wasn’t it, and just because she had a certain kind of affection for him didn’t mean that she wanted to surrender a part of herself to him forever. She loved him, but not the way that she thought that she was meant to, if the songs on the radio or the dime-store paperbacks she’d read as a girl were to be believed. It wasn’t fucking all right. 

“Yeah. Of course.” 

Logan looked at her for a long moment. He was shrewd. For most people, the lie that your parents were omniscient, omnipotent beings lost its sheen in adolescence. But Shiv had always thought that her father was a notable exception to that rule. Thirty-two years old, and she still knew he could see straight through her.

“He’s a good man, Pinky,” Logan said. His voice was grave. The dark tone didn’t match the gentle hand on her trembling knee. “He’ll make a fine husband.” 

Shiv shifted her gaze to the car window. Moss-covered stone walls lined the road and shrouded the lake from view. She thought that the walls must be ancient, or at least medieval. Had to have been here for centuries. Stood sentinel as the tiny hamlets dotting the coast cropped up and withered away over intervening centuries, survived wars and cannon blasts and the awful churn of time passing. It felt silly, almost, to be passing through in a Maureen Baker dress, in a vintage cream-colored car, thinking that her destination was set, that her frivolous little life could compare to the things that these walls and this stretch of road had seen.

“I know,” she said, to the ghostly reflection in the window. “He will.”


End file.
